


Just Browsing

by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp



Series: Shorts/One Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Gen, Questioning, Sexuality Crisis, Unilock, and hasnt quite worked it out yet, freshers' fair, freshers' week, john is a tiny nervous repressed bisexual puppy, lgbtq society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4362335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/pseuds/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John ends up the LGBTQ society's stand at Freshers' Fair and isn't too sure why. Jeanine helps out a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Browsing

Taking his exams was really nerve-wracking, writing his UCAS application was _incredibly_ nerve-wracking, waiting for the phone calls on results day that would pretty much confirm his entire future was possibly the nerve-wracking thing he'd done is entire life – but standing now in front of the open gates onto a lawn inundated with new people, the new people he'll be spending the next seven years of his life with, John feels just as nervous as any of those times combined. Maybe he's exaggerating, but it's definitely the same feeling of agitated dread in the pit of his stomach.

His phone vibrates against his twitching fingers, shoved deep in the pocket of his noticeably crumped jeans. It's his mum, predictably, saying 'I'm proud of you' with a cringe-worthy amount of X's. He rolls his eyes, sidestepping to let a gang of other first years past him - who seem excited and nonchalant rather than anxious - with a murmured apology. After replying he stares at the screen for a few seconds, then goes to pocket it, before another beep makes him check it again. It's Harry this time, with an even more obvious message: 'ur gonna love freshers - best time to meet girls ;)'

He doesn't even bother replying to that, just locks it looks back up. The lawn is thronging, juxtaposed completely to his bubble of relative quiet on the outside of the gates. There's so many people he can't imagine meeting anyone specifically; the crowd moves as one. It doesn't seem like a sea of bodies you would want to jump into. But isn't this the time of life for being social, meeting new people? There's no way he can go through seven years without friends. He's a nice enough guy, right? He can make friends, right? For God's sake, it's Freshers' Week - it's _for_ making friends. He grits his teeth and steps through the gate like a cheesy movie, and his momentary triumph is only stunted when a girl at the registration table stops him, smiling, and asks him to sign in.

 'Oh right,' he says, 'sorry.'

 

 

From the gate the crowd had seemed daunting, one singular mass, not a group on individuals. But from inside _,_ when every single face and expression is visible, it's somehow worse. It seems insane that every person here has a life, and a history, and a personality. And yet everyone here is in the same boat - as his mum kept reminding him as she packed him off with his thickest jumper and far too many boxes. All in the same position. Just pick someone and talk to them. Pick someone from this concentrated group of over a thousand people. Seems easy enough.

The girl on the gate gave him a leaflet, and he checks it now, shifting to the side of the path. It's mainly key information, facts and figures that would make anyone feel uneasy with the memories of clearing and accommodation booking and reams and reams of online questionnaires, but as he turns to the centrefold his eye is caught by the colourful stripes of a rugby strip and the familiarity of it calms him somewhat. Grass stains are a constant, stretching from year ten through sixth form to now in a way none of the people here do. John looks up, and seeing a table nearby with a crowd and a banner the same colour as the stripes, decides to head there first. There is nothing wrong to sticking with what you know, at least at first. Nothing wrong with easing yourself in – sticking a toe in first.

The guys running the rugby stall are actually quite friendly, and he leaves having eagerly signed their email list, already feeling better. Okay, this is easy - chat and sign. He returns triumphantly to the centre of the path, standing taller, looking round expectantly now, rather than desperately. He's almost excited, the cliched butterflies in his chst changing their tune by a fraction, one or two semitones. The feeling doesn't last for very long though, because pure chance and cruel lady fate have conspired against him by placing a calculated object in his eye line that deflates him instantly.

He falters and shifts his weight, knowing full well that this feeling of discomfort and insecurity and anxiousness he gets when faced with anything like this is stupid and ridiculous and completely uncalled for. He checks over his shoulder. No one's looking at him. He really should not be feeling paranoid like this at a friendly event.

There's nothing wrong with going over - is there? That doesn't say anything. _It really does though._ So? There's nothing wrong with it, he knows that, it's all fine. _Is it?_ People aren't here to judge. _People do judge though._

Two sides of his brain are at war, hurling meaningless questions and answers back and forth at each other while he stands awkwardly, blocking the walkway again. The stall is like a magnet, and its force is strong enough to shift John's trainers on the concrete. But a niggling nagging something prods and pokes at his motivations, judging them, picking them apart in a way that bothers him maybe more than it should.

Well, isn't today specifically _for_ getting out of your comfort zone? That's what all the posters and advice sites are proclaiming.

 

John crumples up the leaflet into his pocket and walks forward on a definite though still nervous approach. He slows down as he gets closer, and waits until the girl manning the stall has turned away briefly from her post, calling over to another girl, who's wearing an event supervisor T shirt and carrying a stack of paper sandwich bags, to 'pass the cheese'. Head down, he reaches the table and spends a good twenty seconds alone with a photo album that's as brightly coloured as the sign above his head, the one that's making the back of his neck itch from standing under it. For a good twenty seconds, he just looks.

Stares at the smiling people in the pictures that are covered in painted hearts and rainbows and letters and slogans, stares at the signs, banners, flags that the smiling people are holding. More colours than he thought there were to be honest. He doesn't linger, except maybe a bit, on one page specifically. The picture in the centre shows a girl, grinning widely, with one hand round a boy's shoulders and the other clutching what John guesses is a flag. Her boyfriend, presumably, is holding the other end of it, so it's raised above them, meaning the whole photo is bathed in a wash of blue and pink and purple tones.

'Hiya,' says a voice above him, chipper and bright, 'can I help?'

John turns the page as if it's suddenly hot, and says quickly 'I'm just browsing.'

The girl to whom the voice belongs smiles. She's quite pretty, with soft brown eyes and hair, and when she smiles she looks approachable and fun, and when she talks her accent is southern Irish and lilting. Standing here is less fear inducing with a pretty girl, John finds. But what she says isn't comforting at all. 'Hi there "just browsing", I'm Jeanine,' she laughs. Then, picking up a clipboard with an old biro tied to it haphazardly, continues 'seriously though, do you have any questions or can I just go right ahead and sign you up?'

She offers him another upwards twitch of her lips, only this time it makes his mouth go so dry he can only manage 'um...'

Jeanine looks disheartened and lowers the clipboard. She sits down on a folding chair behind the table and opens her sandwich bag. 'Question?' she asks over the rustling.

'Um,' John says again warily, hating how stupid he sounds. This was a terrible _terrible_ idea. In search of something to say other than "um" he looks up, and catches sight of the banner again. 'What does the Q stand for?' he asks.

Jeanine puts a hand over her mouth, chewing on what smells like stilton and salt and vinegar crisps, before answering 'queer.'

'Oh,' John frowns. 'isn't that… I mean I thought that was offensive…' It certainly was offensive when Clara's parents had hurled it against his sister, or when his classmates scrawled it on the grotty walls of the boys loos. He thought it word designed to intimidate - it had certainly worked that way for him.

'Well it's kind of been reclaimed,' Jeanine tells him, and she sounds unnervingly like she understands, 'It's like an umbrella term, you know? Because obviously there are so many labels out there.' _obviously?_ he thinks, _how many can there possibly be?_ His surprise must have been hidden pretty badly because Jeanine's mouth quirks knowingly. 'The Q stops us running out of space on the banner.'

'Right.'

Jeanine looks like her answers supposed to change his mind, and when he doesn't reach for the pen she goes back to her sandwich. John goes back to the photos. He knows he should leave really, or sign up, and he's not willing to do either. He stays in limbo, flicking through the pictures like a tourist, just passing through. He's wandering if it's convincing when another boy practically swaggers up to the stall.  
  
He's tall, at least six feet - at least half a foot taller than John, though John will tell anyone who'll listen that he's five-eight - and stands like he's royalty or something, shoulders thrown back, chin completely parallel to the table. He takes the pen leisurely, raising an eyebrow at the state of it, and signs with a flourish that makes John think _public school_ and scowl.

Jeanine grins, 'great! you're singing up?'

'Course,' the boy says, and John was right - his voice screams money and old cloisters.

'Welcome to our LGBTQ society then -'

'Xander,' the boy extends a hand confidently.

'Jeanine.' She reaches across to shake it. Then there's a pause. Oh God.

Xander jerks his thumb sideways. 'And this is...?'

'Just browsing,' Jeanine informs him.

At this he throws his head back, laughing more like a shopping centre Father Christmas than a nineteen year old. 'Who just browses the LGBT stall?' he asks, rhetorically really since his tone has ensured John has no intentions of trying to justify himself (he realises he couldn’t really, anyway). 'I didn't realise sexuality was a shopping trip.'

Jeanine laughs too at that, and has to cover her mouth again to avoid spraying them with crisp crumbs. She seems more sympathetic though, adding that 'we welcome everyone though seriously,' and _her_ tone conveys a sort of understanding that John dearly hopes is only down to female intuition, and not him being inconspicuous. He suspects it's the latter, and looks over his shoulder for an excuse to leave. Only Xander is actually looking at him now, in a way that suggests he's not allowed go just yet. In fact, it's more looking _over_ him than _at_ him, and it's unnervingly predatory. God, there's no way he can just walk out of here now; he feels trapped in a snare.

John states his name as if for a record, and doesn't offer his hand. He's got a habit of licking his lips when he's feeling scrutinised, only now it seems completely the wrong message to give, and as Xander asks him what he's studying he has to make a conscious effort not to.

'Medicine,' he says, and doesn't elaborate.

There's another pause before Xander takes it upon himself to break it with an overly jolly proclamation of 'I'm doing ancient history and classics.'

 _Course you are_ John thinks bitterly. He doubts he'll see Xander stalking down the aisles of Lidl with the calculator on their phone up like the rest of the student body; it's unfair of course, but honestly right now, he's grateful Xander'll be in Waitrose, far away from him. He doesn't like the brash, outspoken confidence of this boy, and he really doesn't like the way he looks at him.

'Well,' Jeanine says, her lyrical voice only somewhat diffusing the palpable awkward discomfort, 'I do media and journalism so I have no clue what you guys are thinking.'

That makes them all smile, at least a bit, and opens the floor again to conversation.

'So you run this whole operation then?' Xander asks her.

'You make me sounds like a master villain,' she grins.

'The glorious leader of our exclusive cult, bravely pushing the gay agenda out to the masses.'

They both laugh again now, though Jeanine's giggles are lost beneath startlingly loud barks from Xander. John feels more uncomfortable with every second, and he pulls out his phone, flicks through messages he's already read for something to do that isn't feeling confused over his dislike of their leaving him out. _Leaving him out of what?_ What exactly does he want to be part of, because it's definitely not Xander's "exclusive cult". He's genuinely considering just backing away when he realises they're talking again. This isn't how he envisioned his attempts at socialising during Freshers' Week going.

'So you put on events then?' Xander's asking, 'parties, drinks nights, films?'

'Sure,' Jeanine nods, 'loads.'

Her expression is enthusiastic, and it's somewhat infectious. Her parties, drinks nights and films genuinely sounds fun, and it sets John grappling again with the part of him (a very _very_ small part, definitely not a significant part) that wants to join in.

Of course, it only takes one word from someone else to squash that part of, and it takes even less when that someone is wearing patent brogues and is looking at him like he's a dessert in the window of a fancy patisserie or something. 'I'm sure we'll be hanging out then,' Xander says, and John's probably exaggerating but he sounds like underneath his initial harsh, clipped sound he's practically _purring._ 'At some of Jeanine's "do"s -'

_Okay, time to go._

'Actually,' John interrupts him, and it's more of a blurt than a calculated excuse, 'I better, um, go. You know, stuff… stuff to do…'

He turns, doesn't look back at either of them, not wanting to see disappointment or annoyance or an arrogant smirk. He flicks his phone into life again as a half-hearted attempt to create an excuse, but really he's just leaving and he is not, is _not_ going back. This was a bad idea. A wholly bad idea without a single thread of silver, let alone a whole lining. Back to normality, no turning around.

 

Then Jeanine calls him, and he turns instinctively at the sound of his name. _Damn._

Luckily Xander's left too. His height and his shoes shining like a beacon make him easy to spot. He's standing a few metres away from the stand with another crowd of people, talking and laughing and _(don't even think it)_ flirting _(why did you even think it?)_ too loudly with them instead. John checks back at Jeanine – she's leaning over the table and beckoning.

 _I'm going to regret this,_ he thinks, but he goes slowly back to her, feeling like a puppy someone's caught misbehaving. He's not signing anything, though, however rude she ends up thinking he is. At least she won't think he's… _she will, you walked right up to the LGBTQ stand. No one "just browses" the LGBTQ stand._ Well whatever she thinks of him, he's not signing up. And if that means that half of him will be disappointed too so be it. He's not signing up. He can't.

He reaches the table again, probably (annoyingly) flushing. 'Sorry,' he tries, but she shakes her head.

'Don't worry, I thought he was a bit much too. Just…' here she looks about her conspiratorially, and John suspects it's for his benefit not hers, which is embarrassing. Then, her eyes are back on him and threatening to bore into all his secrets that she somehow seems to know, smiling, she tells him 'the Q also stands for questioning.' And rocks start to fall from weathered cliffs everywhere.

'Oh,' is all he can manage, and all it seems Jeanine requires, because she sits back down and leaves him to walk away feeling heavy.

 

 

On the way out a helper in an orange T shirt hands him a feedback questionnaire. It's mainly tick boxes but there are a few questions at the end, including: "did the fair today help solve any questions you had when you arrived?"

 _No,_ he thinks bitterly, _no it didn't._

 

**Author's Note:**

> help me fill up the questioning tag
> 
> im on [tumblr](http://whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/) pls say hi :)


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